


If Our Paths Forget to Cross

by Kate_Reid



Series: Never Be Your Curse [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: AU of my own AU, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, First Meetings, Light-Hearted, Meet-Cute, more fashion commentary than i have any business making, slightly warped, why would i
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-13 02:51:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15354603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kate_Reid/pseuds/Kate_Reid
Summary: Kylo and Rey ogle each other on the subway all week, oblivious to each other’s interest. Will they ever meet? You hecking know they will.Noisily clearing her throat, she waited for him to look up, then smiled at him.When he finally met her eyes, one corner of his mouth quirked up very slightly.





	If Our Paths Forget to Cross

**Author's Note:**

  * For [situation_normal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/situation_normal/gifts).
  * Inspired by [You Know I Can’t Believe It](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15198242) by [Kate_Reid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kate_Reid/pseuds/Kate_Reid). 



> The lovely [situation_normal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/situation_normal/pseuds/situation_normal) prompted me for a modern AU subway meet-cute. The only Reylo modern AU I've ever written is [this teeny ficlet.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15198242) Because I lack imagination, these are actually the same Rey and Ben from that ficlet. You don't need to have read that for this to make sense; it's an AU of an AU.
> 
> OTL

Now with a moodboard by my darling [situation_normal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/situation_normal/pseuds/situation_normal)!

 

He saw her Monday morning, standing, holding a pole, never moving, solid even as the train jolted.  She had earbuds in; she was reading a Kindle. Her tan pantsuit didn’t exactly look cheap, but it wasn’t high-end, either.  Ann Taylor, maybe? Talbot’s? Macy’s?

He certainly wasn’t an expert on women’s fashion, but he remembered enough of his mother’s clothing to recognize quality.  His mother wasn’t a flashy dresser, though she clothed herself with care and was in a position to do it at considerable expense.  Class and dignity seemed to be sewn into the very seams of her suits. She could have worn rags but still sold the whole package with her near-regal bearing.  

Ms. Red Line Train’s seams left some to be desired.  He’d concentrated on the floor in an effort not to stare at her face or elsewhere on her body.  The last thing he wanted to do was come off as some sort of subway creeper. Heaven knew there were enough of those already.  Keeping his head down, he glimpsed her polished brown pumps. The shoes were good, probably Cole-Haan or a similar mid-level brand.  So, she was sensible.

But yes, it was the seam that had given her away.  The stitching at the hem of her pants had a small imperfection; it didn’t exactly line up all the way around.  She was actually wearing seconds--Ann Taylor Outlet, then. 

Her irregular pants hem was a red herring, though, he thought.  She could have been wearing bespoke Armani by the way she carried herself--beautiful posture, head held just so.  It reminded him of his mother. Ugh. _Why_ would his brain do that? He’d just wanted to look at a pretty woman on the train, and his mind had dropped him into a Freudian nightmare.

Just as he was angrily psychoanalyzing himself, the train juddered to a halt, and she stepped out the door, earbuds still in, having packed her Kindle neatly into her leather satchel.

 

*******

 

She saw him on Tuesday evening.  He was standing, holding onto the strap, arms flexing under the sleeves of his black t-shirt every time the train wobbled.  He had earbuds in and seemed to be mouthing the words to whatever he was listening to.

She certainly wasn’t the kind of woman to ogle strange men in public, but she couldn’t help herself.  His rippling biceps, employed only in service of keeping their owner upright on the lurching train, were lovely, though.  Structure serving function. Ornamentation with a purpose. 

His black t-shirt was faded and had probably been washed into a comfortable softness.  His black jeans were faded, too, almost as if they’d done so to complement his shirt. The jeans bore faint stains of red--paint.  Was he an artist? The stains on his pants moved in time with his bracing himself on the strap as the train whizzed through the tunnel.  Red. His leg muscles tightened, then relaxed under the denim. Were the stains a warning?

She shook her head to clear it.  Dammit Jim, she was an architect, not a physiologist.  There was no reason for her to think about the way his muscles worked or how soft his shirt might be.  She’d just wanted to look at a handsome man on the train, and her mind dropped her into absurd daydreams of drawing blueprints of him.

Just as her mind had rendered a new _Vitruvian Man_ , the train stopped, and he stepped out the door, earbuds still in, still mouthing the lyrics of whatever he was listening to.

 

*******

 

He saw her early Wednesday morning, and he couldn’t quite believe it, because there was really no earthly reason for him to be on the train at this hour; it was just chance and drunkenness and Hux being an asshole, as always. But there she was.  There were her earbuds, there was her Kindle.

Her legs were encased in leggings with a star chart print.  It was good that he’d decided to stare toward the floor in her presence, rather than up at the face he still knew was beautiful from the one fleeting glance, or at the figure that appeared to be lovely.  Now, he had time to count the stars and see the constellations on her firm calves. That was Libra, there were Pictor and Norma, and that was . . . just something that the fabric makers put on to make it look pretty.

He laughed to himself and shook his head to clear it.  Had he just been trying to read the night sky on some woman’s leggings?  Yes. Yes, he had. But what long, gorgeous legs. Even her trainers were elegant . . . Stop.  He needed to stop.

And stop, he did, right at the same time as the train.  She hurried out of the door with her gym bag and satchel.

 

*******

 

She saw him on Thursday evening, a headband on his head, his shiny black hair gathered into a small, messy bun.   _ Of course he’d have a manbun. _ She rolled her eyes at herself.  But she’d have to be something other than human not to notice his arms in the shirt with the sleeves haphazardly cut off.  If she’d thought he’d been a dream in a t-shirt, this was definitely something beyond even a wild dream. 

His exposed, rippling muscles were a glorious foundation.  She’d never thought that foundations had to be ugly. Utility didn’t necessarily cancel out beauty.   And she was very sure that his strength served a purpose, all the while being sighworthily gorgeous. She snapped her mind back from the purposes his strength might serve with her if he took her to his bed.

What the actual fuck was wrong with her, lusting after a man she’d seen on the train a couple of times?  She had no idea what had come over her.

She didn’t even notice him exiting the train.

 

*******

 

He saw her Friday morning.  She had on cropped khaki pants, tan ballet flats, and a dark brown shell with a khaki jacket. Well, she was missing a matching pith helmet, so it wasn’t an urban safari--just Casual Friday, no doubt.  Banana Republic had definitely done her wrong. He rolled his eyes to himself, thanking the universe that he wasn’t beholden to a corporate job. 

She was still beautiful, though.  And even somewhat . . . endearing? She’d clearly seen this outfit in the pages of some catalog or in some window, said “fuckit,” and bought the whole thing, having the “look” sold to her because she had no fashion sense of her own.  She made the fucking ridiculous outfit look adorable. 

He could picture her walking into a store, pointing at that unfortunate safari look on a mannequin, and saying “I need to be casual.  Give me that,” then giving her sizes to the sales associate. She would have been out of the store within ten minutes.

He added this to his store of knowledge about the random subway woman he’d decided to fixate upon, and he let it fuel his wild imaginings.  

It was ridiculous, to be sure.  But he’d built up an entire personality for her in his mind.  She was an accountant or an analyst, maybe. Very practical and goal oriented, concentrating on the end results.  She didn’t care overly much about her appearance. Oh, she played the game and was very good about making sure she looked acceptable; she was pretty enough that her missteps went unnoticed, but probably thought her time and money were better spent elsewhere.

The look was really not good.  But her quietly dignified bearing made it look like the finest couture.  

He watched her step through the doors just beside him.

 

*******  

 

She saw him Friday evening.  He was all broad shoulders and shiny dark hair.

His shirt was . . . mesh.  Mesh. Black mesh, see-through, and all. She could see everything she’d speculated about and then some.  Abdominal muscles stacked and stacked and stacked. An actual eight-pack. She didn’t know those existed in the wild. But they did!  And here they were! Right on her Red Line train, right in front of the salad she’d bought to take home for dinner. 

As much as the mesh shirt let her see, she couldn’t help but think it was a little tacky.  She’d actually found him sexier with his black t-shirt stretched tight and straining to contain him.

Right now, the mesh left less than nothing to her imagination.  Despite her disappointment, she understood. Exposed foundations could definitely have merit.  In fact, sometimes, people _needed_ to see what held a building up.

And she had desperately needed to see that foundation, so solid and strong, tight abdominal muscles begging her to build on them.  That was it. She wanted to build on him. That was what her problem was, wasn’t it? 

 

*******

 

They saw each other Saturday morning.  When she got onto the train, she was surprised to see him so early; she’d figured that yesterday evening’s mesh would mean a late night for him.  Later, she’d blame her memories of the mesh--coupled with her present view of him in yet another de-sleeved t-shirt--for her stumble to the ground of the train car, strewing her things along the aisle.  Her face flamed as she got up as quickly as possible. 

He sucked in a breath when he saw her, making a small sound when he saw her fall.  Immediately, he rushed toward her to help her up, but she had already scrambled to her feet on her own and was now frantically gathering her fallen belongings.  She snatched up her ever-present brown leather satchel first, then her green yoga mat in its carrier. 

He managed to pick up a small bag that he saw was from the art supply store, moving toward her hesitantly.  Because he knew he was big, he tried his best to appear non-threatening, making himself as small as possible, especially when speaking to strange women.  He bent his knees and hunched his shoulders when he approached her.

And now, her humiliation was complete.  The beautiful man she’d been enjoying for a week had watched her bite it on the subway.  She willed her cheeks to stop, but they flared ever hotter as he picked up her art store bag and offered it to her shyly.  She thanked him, unable to meet his eyes.

He asked if she was okay, and she was forced to look at his face.  His dark eyes radiated concern. Up close, his eyes had golden flecks.  There was no mockery there. She nodded, told him she was fine, thanked him again for helping her, accepted the return of her bag with the charcoals.  She was prepared to turn away from him to nurse her embarrassment alone.

“I’m glad you’re okay.  Are you . . . an artist?”  he asked.

Her own incredulity puzzled her for a moment.  An artist? Her? “N-no. I’m an architect,” she replied, even as she knew that offering up details of her life to a random man on the train was a Bad Idea.

“Ohhhh,” he sighed, like he’d solved a puzzle.

“But you are.  An artist, I mean,” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she wanted to kick herself.  She’d just admitted to seeing him and noticing him before. Now he’d think she was a klutz _and_  a creeper.

“I am.  At least in my spare time,” he replied.  “But how did you know?”

She cringed.  “I . . . I saw you the other day.  You had paint on your clothes.”

He nodded, and tried not to react to the fact that she’d seen and noticed him previously.  It made him feel less creepy to have noticed her. “Yeah . . . I paint.” He wanted to kick  his own ass because he sounded so ridiculous. 

“I noticed,” she said, quietly.  “And no, I’m not really an artist.  But I like to draw things in my spare time.” Her heart fluttered, and she tried to think of a non-ridiculous explanation.  “I like to draw buildings from my favorite sci-fi series. That I read, I mean. I just enjoy sketching what I think they look like.” 

Well.  It wasn’t like he wasn’t guilty of creating the occasional fanart.   He’d drawn various iterations of the USS _Enterprise._  He’d drawn _Voyager, Galactica, Serenity;_  He’d drawn Klingon Birds of Prey and Colonial Raptors . . . 

“ _No!_  I do that, too!  I draw things from movies and books.”  He immediately feared that he’d been a little too vehement as he watches her eyes change for a second.  He knew he could be a bit intense, and he didn’t want to scare her.

She enjoyed the change in his eyes as he grew bolder; it emboldened her, too--enough for her to ask, “So, where were you headed last night?  A party?” She wanted answers about the mesh. It had just seemed so out of character. She’d seen him dressed in old, comfortable, utilitarian clothes to paint, then she’d seen him dressed in clothes that indicated a workout (and to that point, she’d forgiven him for the manbun).  So, seeing him in a mesh shirt and tight, shiny pants was surprising.

He colored.  Where she could see them through his hair, the tips of his ears were utterly bright red.  

“Well.  I said that I’m only an artist in my spare time,” he said slowly, “I’ve got another job.  I’m a bartender.” That was more than a half-truth, he decided. “Bartender” was, in fact, his actual job.  And he spent most of his time slinging drinks at Snoke’s, the louche cocktail bar that was the flagship of Snoke’s empire.  

He didn’t actually want to tell her about his Friday night duties at one of Snoke’s other establishments, where he danced in a cage suspended over the dance floor.  First Order was a club he’d never have set foot in if he had a choice. Too loud, too many lights, too many people, too many drugs, pick one. The cage, though, made it embarrassing.  It was extremely clear to him that his own personal sexiness was on offer, regardless of how much of that he might or might not feel he had. 

She was too deep into her own mortification to notice his at all.  She had just essentially admitted that she had observed him on the train on more than one occasion and actually thought about him enough to speculate on what he might be doing.  

“Oh?  Where do you tend bar?” she managed to get out, praying she sounded like a normal person and not a creepy stalker.

“Snoke’s.  On Madine Avenue,” he replied.  He noticed her eyes widening.

“That’s just down the street from my office,” she said.  “No wonder I see you all the time.” _Dammit_ , she’d done it again.  Way to be creepy.

He felt more at ease, knowing that she’d noticed him and didn’t seem to think he was just a subway perv.  “Oh? Maybe you should stop in for a drink one day.” He hoped he’d sounded casual enough.

She smiled at him.  “I might,” she said.  “This is my stop coming up. Thank you for helping me.”  She walked to the doors and exited the train when it stopped.

 

*******

 

They saw each other again Sunday evening.  The car was pretty empty besides them and a small gaggle of old ladies who’d all gotten on together.  He was at the front of the car, trying not to stare creepily. She was at the back of the car just wanting to get home.  But, despite their conversation just the other day, both were still too shy to speak to one another.

The old ladies arranged themselves in a couple rows near the middle of the car, and they were all chattering among themselves.  It sounded like they were just coming back from their bingo night, and Hazel, who’d won a jackpot, was the object of their gentle ribbing.

He saw her at the back of the car, again in comfortable clothes with her yoga mat over her shoulder.

She saw him at the front of the car, in another homemade sleeveless shirt and stretchy pants.

He had no idea that she took the train after both kickboxing and yoga classes--it depended on the day.

She had no idea that he took the train after his Krav Maga classes.

But they respected each other’s physical strength and enjoyed imagining each other working out, unbeknownst to either of them.

The train stopped again, and a passel of young men boarded, all wearing similar outfits.  

They remained standing, and she wondered what they were up to, not sitting down when there were definitely seats available.  She had thought that they may have been some sports team--at least ten of them with matching red hoodies.

His danger-sense tingled, and he had an inkling that things were about to take a turn for the worse.

She dreaded the trouble that might erupt and didn’t want to be proven right . . . but then the red hoodies moved toward the bingo ladies.

The look they exchanged put them both on guard.

Sure enough, the red hoodies’ intent soon became clear.  They began menacing the ladies right at the longest point between stops, yanking at purse straps and eliciting shrieks of dismay from the women.  

She shared a glance with him and they nodded briefly to each other, a fraction of a second before they sprang out of their seats, taking down the red hoodies who were scaring the old ladies.  

For a second, they were back to back, throwing the horrid little would-be muggers all about the subway car.

Having barely broken a sweat, he  rounded them up at one end of the car, standing over them menacingly, flexing his bare arms and snarling--actually _snarling_ \--periodically.   

She hid a smile at his silly display.  The red hoodies didn’t find it silly at all.  A couple were openly sobbing.

She checked on the bingo gang, who stared up at her wide-eyed.  After ensuring all of the women were okay and had their purses back, she pressed the emergency button to call the transit police, who would board the train at the next stop.  

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted her taking a piece of paper from her bag, writing something on it, and handing it to one of the women.  Curiosity got the better of him, and he strained to listen. He had to hide his smile as he heard her talking about a beginner kickboxing class at her gym.

Finally, finally, the train ground to a halt at the next stop.  The transit police boarded and hauled off the cowering red hoodies, who seemed slightly relieved to be out of the custody of the large, snarling dark-haired man.  

This also seemed to be the bingo ladies’ stop.  As the police made sure they were unharmed and escorted the women off the train, one of them tossed over her shoulder, “Your mother should be proud, young man!”  

He sat down, then, flushing, hunching his shoulders, covering his face with his hands.

She moved nearer to him.  Cautiously, she took a seat across from him as the train finally got underway again.  

Noisily clearing her throat, she waited for him to look up, then smiled at him.  

When he finally met her eyes, one corner of his mouth quirked up very slightly.

Once his gaze locked on hers, both found it hard to look away.  

He broke the silence.  “I’m Kylo,” he said.

“I’m Rey,” she replied.

Kylo held out his hand to her.  

Rey took it.  

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you once again to [situation_normal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/situation_normal/pseuds/situation_normal), to Lyssa, and to Chris Cornell. Rest in power and in song. Happy birthday.
> 
>  
> 
> [Come say hello!](https://calledalaska.tumblr.com)


End file.
